Harry Potter One shots

The Other Black Cousin

Summary:

"Viktor has never been so taken with an omega before," Tom says. "Ah," he says smoothly. "But who wouldn't be?" He looks at Harry and smirks. "You are, after all, the most beautiful omega."

Harry laughs, eyes shining mischievously. "My poor omega heart cannot take it if you keep calling me that.

Work Text:

Draco Black-Malfoy felt the same way as he always did when he saw Harry Black-Potter-affection and fondness that is usually reserved for a brother, a certain anticipation at finally being with his beloved cousin again, and something else, underlying that feeling, something he does not want to admit, even now as his chest beats with both excitement and anxiety.

Here Harry comes, with all the grace of an omega, unfolding himself from the carriage and holding a silk glove-covered hand out for the footman... a deep red hat on his head, decorated with intricate details, French in style, and a playful smile at his lips as he sees Draco. His neck is extended, his cheekbones sharp, as most purebloods' usually are. The rest of his body follows, covered in a flurry of red silk and ruffles, a style that has not even reached England yet.

Draco suddenly wishes he wore fancier robes.

"Cousin!" Harry calls excitedly, green eyes like a cat. "My favorite cousin, how have you been?" He asks in a deep sultry voice.

Draco smiles, torn between being relieved that his cousin is back safely, and thinking it's not so bad when he's in France. "I've been good," Harry looks at him through his dark lashes, thick and long. "You look beautiful as ever, cousin."

Harry laughed in a way that told Draco Harry knew this very much. "Oh, you lie," he said, eyes rolling and a fond yet playful smile at his lips. Then he looks at Draco slowly from head to toe and smiles. "You are the most beautiful thing in Britain, my love."

He was. Draco was the most beautiful omega in Britain. He has been told by his parents, by his peers, by the alphas who courted him, and by debutante magazines and newspapers that adored him.

And still, Draco thought he was nothing next to Harry.

Harry, who was not exactly beautiful, no, not like Draco who had platinum blonde hair and large blue eyes. Harry, who by all means looked... average, except for his green doe eyes that were perfectly framed by his dark black hair and thick lashes. Where Draco was tall, Harry was short, and where Draco was pale, Harry was tan.

But it was different when the praise comes from Harry's lips. Something warm spreads through Draco's chest, Harry's casual approval of him making smile.

"My sweet cousin," Harry stares at him now with softness. "My milk and honey cousin," he says in almost an awed whisper. "A true English rose."

"You have become French, cousin," Draco teases lightly.

There was a definite polishing to Harry compared to when Draco last saw him, three years ago the summer before their seventh year. He was full of teenage mischief then-still adjusting to presenting as an omega. He would never insult Harry by calling him awkward in any way, because he is a Black, and Blacks were never not graceful.

But now he has entirely come to his being.

The rich silk robes he wore, the slow sensuous walk-it fitted him perfectly, the mannerisms that were very Parisian as he moved with an unbelievable casual elegance. And the flirtatious glint his eyes that never seemed to leave.

"Nonsense," Harry waves dismissively. "I am an English at heart." Harry takes Draco's arm in an obvious familiarity, and they walk together, servants scrambling to unload Harry's many luggages.